


bridges won't burn until you set them alight (month six)

by Hanaasbananas



Series: Going Through The Motions [6]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: (finally amiright?), 1x10 AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fire, Fluff and Angst, brief mentions of violence, in which Constance gets her happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-12 19:37:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20987699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hanaasbananas/pseuds/Hanaasbananas
Summary: Bonacieux is plowing his way through the crowd that surrounds them, stopping abruptly when he sees her. His eyes flick between the two of them, and D’Artagnan tries to step aside but she holds tightly to him and he stays, staring across at her husband as though issuing a challenge.





	bridges won't burn until you set them alight (month six)

**Author's Note:**

> And here is is guys...the end!
> 
> Enjoy!

“D’Artagnan just shot Athos. He’s calling for you- he needs help!”

Constance is halfway out the door, poised to follow behind the girl when she freezes, a sudden thought occurring to her. How can she hope to expel herself from D’Artagnan’s heart if she goes running when he calls for her? And what if her husband finds out she has broken free of her house arrest?

He will go straight to the Cardinal.

“Mademoiselle!” the girl is in front of her again, her eyes pleading, but Constance is already shaking her head, her mind made up. “We must hurry, come with me now!”

If D’Artagnan thinks her heartless enough to forsake him in his time of need…he’ll never look twice at her again. And he will be safer for it.

Constance steels herself, making her voice as hard as she can, even as her heart sinks like a stone in her chest.

"Tell him…" she licks her lips "tell him that I am not his wife, that he should call on me so.” something flashes across the girls face too fast for her to see, but Constance continues, making her tone dismissive. “I have other things I must be doing." Before the girl can protest, Constance is shutting the door, leaning heavily against the other side, her legs weak.

* * *

_“Shoot me and you will never see Constance Bonacieux alive again.” Milady’s voice is smug as she turns to face them, and D’Artagnan feels his stomach drop. _

_“What have you done to her?” he demands, rushing forward “Constance has _nothing_ to do with this” letting himself be held back by Athos, D’Artagnan glares at her, hissing “If you’ve hurt her…”_

_“Oh, young love. So touching.” Milady mocks him. _

_“I warned you there would be a final reckoning between us, Athos. Treville! I’ll be waiting with her in the Rue Saint-Jacques in one hours’ time. Send them. No-one else”_

_Watching her leave, D’Artagnan slumps in Athos’ hold, his heart beating her name as he turns Milady’s words over in his mind. _

_A final reckoning. And she is striking at them all. Dread fills his stomach, but he straightens up with grim determination. Whatever happens, Constance will _not_ be harmed._

* * *

Constance can’t stop pacing.

She has never hated her confinement more than she has today. That morning when Madeleine had breathlessly relayed the events of the night before to her, Constance had trembled with the effort to stay still; to feign disinterest while her mind screamed at her to shake the girl, to demand more information, to run to the Garrison _herself_.

But she had been acutely aware of her husband’s eyes on them, watching their conversation from his place at the table. He had sniffed disdainfully after Constance saw Madeleine to the door “well it looks like the musketeer doesn’t need _my _help to get himself killed.”

She bit her tongue until she drew blood, forcing herself to remain silent as her husband looked on smugly, almost daring her to speak.

It’s like her nightmares have become reality—Bonacieux keeping her trapped in place when D’Artagnan is out there somewhere, hurting and most likely cursing her very existence; and she can’t do anything. There is no way for her to find out what is happening outside these four walls.

She wants to _scream._

She wants to run outside and find him, bring him to her home, to do _anything_ that will make the worry gnawing at her stomach go away. She searches for a task that she can do but everything is spotless—cleaned to within an inch of its life in her frenzy to keep moving, to stop _thinking. _

Everything except for _his_ room. She turns to look at the closed door, considering.

Grabbing hold of the door handle, Constance hesitates for a moment, steeling herself before opening it quickly.

It’s empty.

As it should be. But she had half expected him to be in there, waiting for her. She hasn’t been in D’Artagnan’s room since…_that_ day, keeping the door firmly shut as though to preserve what they’d had within those four walls. The memory of their trysts had rendered it almost sacred in her mind, but it is just a room.

A small, plain room growing stale with disuse.

Hurrying over to the window, Constance throws it open, coughing out what feels like half a lung as the influx of fresh air sends dust flying into her face.

Gathering fresh linens, she makes quick work of the room—D’Artagnan had been nothing if pragmatic, keeping his belongings to a minimum—stripping down the bed and dusting down all visible surfaces. The work keeps her mind occupied, for a time, until she feels it.

Something sharp stabs at her hand while she’s tucking in the new sheets, and she draws it out to see a pinprick of blood welling up on her index finger. Lifting up the mattress, she sucks in a sharp breath when she sees the silver brooch; fashioned into the shape of a simple flower.

Picking up the brooch deferentially, she runs her fingers gently over the edges, watching as the tiny red gemstone in the centre glints in the sunlight. She remembers the day she first saw it—D’Artagnan had come with her to market and they’d taken a detour past the jewellers.

_“You’ve been staring at that brooch for five minutes now” _he’d sounded amused _“why don’t you buy it?”_

_“Well it’s not a necessity, is it? Come on.” _

He must have gone back to get it for her, Constance realises, sitting down heavily on the bed. And what had she done in return? Broken his heart before he had the chance to give it to her. She closes her fist around the brooch, feeling the edges cut into her palm as though it might alleviate the pain in her heart; the pain he must have felt at the words she’d fashioned to hurt him most.

And suddenly it’s like he’s right there beside her; like he never left, his memory drawing her close and keeping her safe in his arms. She was wrong before. This isn’t _just _a room—it never can be, not if she closes her eyes. In this room, where she had loved him so, where they had laughed and danced, and kissed and made love. If she closes her eyes, she can almost imagine being happy again.

* * *

_Constance isn’t here. _

_There’s no sign of her at all in the empty street and in the split second that he manages to feel relief, his stomach tightens at the realisation that this is was a set up. _

Well. It’s one less thing to worry about, _he thinks, following the others into the fray with gusto. _

_With Milady’s men having _considerately_ cleared the street of its residents, they don’t have to watch out for any innocents and the fight doesn’t take very long. He wants to leave Athos to his business, but the first question he asks makes him pause. _

_“Why did you say you had Constance Bonacieux?” _

_“That was the plan” Milady shrugs “but she didn’t…cooperate.” her eyes glitter maliciously as she stares at D’Artagnan. “I planned for this eventuality. Constance is at home.” _

_“While you were busy fighting…well I’ll just say that you might still be able to save her” her lips twist cruelly “if her flesh hasn’t melted from her bones already.”_

_D’Artagnan _runs.

* * *

“_Constance!”_ the shout filters through her consciousness slowly. Inhaling deeply, Constance sputters, eyes flying open and immediately stinging painfully. Blinking slowly, she looks around the room from her position on the floor. And then she freezes, because-

The room is on fire.

The room is on…fire. Constance stares at the flames in shock—it’s almost beautiful— the sea of red, yellow and orange entwined with billowing black smoke and blazing with an intensity she’s never seen before in her life.

_“Constance!”_ the shout comes again, and she springs into action.

Grabbing the blanket from the bed, Constance wraps it around herself, turning to try and find the door through the blaze. Seeing the vague outline of her escape, she ducks her head and charges forward, coming to a halt only when she hears the loud groaning above her.

Looking up, Constance barely manages to leap backward before the wooden beam falls, popping and cracking and sending sparks flying through the air; blocking the exit and trapping her within.

Terror seizes at her heart as she surveys the room, the fire surrounding her on all sides. She tries to scream, but only manages a few seconds before the smoke forces her to stop, her voice muffled within the roar of the flames and she brings the blanket over her face, breathing as shallowly as possible.

Someone is out there. Someone is looking for her, but how can she let them know where she is?

Spinning around frantically, Constance’s eyes alight on the brooch, still on the bed, and she feels a grin pull at her lips. Tearing up a strip of the bedsheet, she bundles the brooch into it and gets as close to the door as she dares, the flames reaching for her, trying to lick at her skin. Squinting through the smoke, she looks for the opening, pulling her arm back and throwing the bundle through it to the other side.

It doesn’t take long for him to find her.

She bundles herself up in the blanket while she waits, feels her shallow breaths get longer, deeper as her head begins to droop. She’ll be out of here soon, so surely there’s no harm in resting for a while…

There is an almighty crash, and she opens her eyes blearily to see a dark figure standing against blinding orange light, swimming in and out of focus. As she watches, he comes closer until she can see him mouth her name, falling to his knees in front of her and pressing a lingering kiss to her damp forehead.

“It’s _you_” she sighs happily, reaching up to touch him. D’Artagnan’s face is covered in soot and he is flushed and sweaty, his brow furrowed as he examines her.

And he is the most beautiful person she has ever seen.

Constance barely notices as he gathers her in his arms, wrapping the blanket more securely around her and carrying her through to the parlour. She can’t stop staring up at him, taking in the grim set of his jaw as he makes his way through her house. “God _is _kind” she murmurs, nuzzling closer into his shoulder.

She’s only vaguely aware of the crush of voices outside—screaming and the splash of water as people run to put the fire out— lifting her head only when D’Artagnan tries to set her down and clinging tighter to him. He tightens his arms imperceptibly around her and then let’s go, grasping her hand instead.

“I’m right here, Constance” he reassures her “Aramis?” a waterskin is pressed to her lips and she finds herself gulping down the cool liquid, not caring as it dribbles down her chin. As the ringing in her ears abates, Constance becomes aware of another loud voice, in the crowd and she cringes.

Bonacieux is plowing his way through the crowd that surrounds them, stopping abruptly when he sees her. His eyes flick between the two of them, and D’Artagnan tries to step aside but she holds tightly to him and he stays, staring across at her husband as though issuing a challenge.

“Oh, my dear I was worried _sick!”_ Bonacieux rushes forward and crushes her in a hug as she sits, unmoving. Shifting as though to kiss her cheek, he hisses in her ear “the Cardinal is still my patron. Now hug me and make it look convincing.”

Glancing at those around her, Constance disentangles her fingers from D’Artagnans, and brings her arms up haltingly to circle her husband. D’Artagnan averts his eyes, his jaw clenching, but she sees Aramis at her side frowning thoughtfully.

“Good girl” Bonacieux murmurs and then, louder “I thought I’d _lost _you!”

D’Artagnan snorts and Bonacieux stiffens, pulling away to glare at him. “Excuse me Monsieur, does the near death of my wife amuse you?”

He shrugs noncommittally, gesturing across the street to where Constance can see rolls of fabric from the storeroom. “I just find your concern hard to believe when you can brave fire for _fabric_” he spits the word “but not your wife.”

Bonacieux flushes, scrambling to his feet “now see here-!”

“Oh, leave him be” Aramis interrupts smoothly, stepping forward to clasp Bonacieux’s shoulder. “A man must always try to protect his business” her husband is nodding along furiously and doesn’t see the sly, almost feral grin that spreads across Aramis’s face. “Besides, without the Cardinal to pay you, such a _fine selection_ of fabrics would be hard to come by again.”

Constance blinks.

Bonacieux has gone pale, his mouth opening and closing without a sound and Aramis winks at her over his shoulder.

“…what” Constance manages

“Oh yes. I think it was…two months ago now?” Aramis says “we bumped into your husband at the palace after he’d collected his last payment. Isn’t that right?” he nudges her husband cheerfully “you were in a _foul _mood that day. Didn’t even stop to say hello!”

Aramis keeps talking but Constance can’t hear him over the blood rushing in her ears. _Two months…_she remembers Madeleines first visit, remembers her husbands’ anger, his talk of Red Guards and the throbbing pain of a bruise on her forehead…

“You’ve been threatening me with nothing?” her voice is raspy, and if it were possible, Bonacieux blanches even more.

Fumbling against the wall behind her, Constance pulls herself to her feet. She stumbles dizzily as she stands, grabbing hold of D’Artagnan’s arm when he rushes forward to steady her. “Threatening...” D’Artagnan murmurs in her ear “Constance what are you talking about?” the concern in his voice makes tears well up in her eyes and she thinks again of isolation and heartache and _two months_.

Looking up at him, at the worry in his eyes and the confused tilt of his head, the words come pouring out of her, “he threatened you, D’Artagnan. The Cardinal was his patron and Bonacieux threatened to tell the Cardinal he heard you plotting his assassination If I didn’t break your heart” her breath hitches, she sees comprehension dawn on his face and she rushes on, _needing_ to tell him the truth.

“He threatened you and I didn’t mean it-what I said to you I didn’t mean it, it was all a lie I did it to save you and-” she chokes back a sob and D’Artagnan shushes her, cupping her face in his hands and wiping her tears away.

In his eyes she sees only gentle kindness, and again she thinks _twomonthstwomonthstwomonths_, thinks of how she had almost forgotten what it was like to be held so softly and she grabs hold of his hand on her face, keeping it there. The corners of his lips quirk up in the beginning of a smile and he presses a kiss to her forehead before grabbing her hand in his and turning to her husband.

“Is this true?” Bonacieux flinches at his tone but he draws himself taller, meeting D’Artagnan’s unwavering stare with his own.

“I did” he shrugs “I did her a mercy. No-one would have faulted me if I threw her out on the street.” 

“So instead you _threatened _her. You threatened her and you hurt her,” D’Artagnan lunges forward suddenly as though to strike him, “you _hurt her_” he repeats, stopping inches from Bonacieux’s face. “And you would have let her _die_ in that fire today!”

Constance sees the way Aramis’s arm tightens around Bonacieux’s shoulders, sees the way D’Artagnan is looking at her husband and she steps forward, grasping at his arm. “D’Artagnan, don’t” she pleads. “it’s _over _now he can’t hurt me anymore” he relaxes in her grip and she continues. “let’s go.”

They make it only a few steps when-

“What sort of life can he give you?” Bonacieux cries after them “a poor one! I could keep you in a veritable paradise!”

Constance freezes.

She turns around slowly, walking back over to him, D’Artagnan a reassuring presence at her back. There is desperation in her husband’s eyes when he looks at her, but no affection. She thinks of the fabrics lining the wall across the street, of his pride and reputation. How she is worth less to him than his business.

“There are too many snakes in your paradise, Bonacieux.” she says quietly. “I would rather live my life as a disgraced woman with D’Artagnan than spend another day taking a beating as your wife.” D’Artagnan inhales sharply behind her but she doesn’t pause, turning on her heel to leave.

The two of them walk in silence for a while. They must look a dreadful sight, but Constance doesn’t care. Reaching out to thread her fingers through his, she glances up at D’Artagnan hesitantly. He looks troubled, but he glances down at her movement, quirking his eyebrow.

“I meant what I said to him. I’d rather be disgraced and with you than without…that is…” she looks away “that is…if you’ll have me”

His expression softens and he exhales her name “of _course._” She searches his face for any resentment but finds only love.

“I know it’ll take time to forgive me”

“There’s nothing to forgive” he counters her indulgently.

“Even after all I’ve done-” she argues, and he cuts her off, turning suddenly to face her. Cupping her face in his hands, he kisses her soundly. His lips are chapped; he tastes of smoke and sweat, but she doesn’t care. Because as his lips move against hers, as she reaches up and tangles her hands in his hair, losing herself in the sensation…she sees their future behind her eyelids. And it is beautiful.

“I love you” he says, pulling back “and you did it to protect me.” His eyes are alight with happiness and he leans down to peck her once, twice, three times more. “The real question is: what did _I _do to deserve the love of the finest woman in all of France?”

Laughter bubbles up in her chest and Constance grins happily, freely for the first time in months. “Oh I don’t know” she reaches up on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear, revelling in the thrill that goes through her when D’Artagnan grabs hold of her waist, keeping her held against him.

“Why don’t you show me?”

**Author's Note:**

> I've loved the feedback I've gotten on this series, and I hope you all enjoyed this extra long finale. With it being a canon divergence of the series 1 finale, there was a lot of plot to fill in, which was harder to do since this series was mostly introspective and confined to Constance's own thoughts. The D'Artagnan parts are mostly for context because again, Constance is trapped in her house, and yeah they're short and a little bad but I can't write action for shit. Plus I think we can all agree that Constance deserves her happy ending after the wringer I put her through. So, this ended up being as long as the other five parts combined. Oops.
> 
> Let me know what you thought!


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